Asleep
by TotallyCaptivated
Summary: In a universe where angels are tested and the world is in a state of total war Dean Winchester meets Castiel under impossible circumstances.
1. Sing me to sleep

Disclaimer| I do not own. Obviously. I wish I did though.

A/N| I love supernatural and I love the concept of angels, so I wanted to go a bit deeper into that. This is not a happy story. But it's hopeful.

Summary| Angels are a rare species. There's something in their blood the government needs. Castiel is the only one to have survived this long. Dean will do whatever it takes to save him.

* * *

Castiel hadn't seen the sky in eighteen years.

He remembered rain, the one thing that stayed constant in his mind. He missed the feel of it against his skin, and absently he traced a trembling finger over his forearm. The rain in his mind is cold, and refreshing, and it chills his bones and makes him feel clean. And he misses it. Anna never liked the rain, not as much as he, and often before she was separated from him she would talk about the sun.

Since Castiel didn't remember it he relied on her interpretation. She said it was bright, brighter than the white florescent lights here. Warm and comforting was her favorite description.

Castiel hadn't felt warm in years.

He shivered. Ironically, and pulled his knees up closer to his chest, breathing deeply through his nose. The dull throbbing at his side made him sigh and he stretched out his legs once more. The monotonous white room surrounding him was still blurry. He was still under. Unconsciously he pulled up the hem of his starch shirt, a sinking feeling dropping in his stomach when he saw the stitches that lay black and contrasting sharp on his skin.

Gingerly he poked it. The pain was minor, nothing he hadn't felt before and he let his shirt fall back down again. What had they done this time? Tissue samples, liver? He swallowed, throat dry. In the end it didn't really matter what they did. His body would heal itself within a day's time; although his healing process was slower now then it used to be.

He was cold.

He studied the tips of his fingers, the paleness of his skin. He was almost as white as everything around him. Faintly, he heard the click of a woman's shoes, the click of a button, the muted dialing of a phone. The hushed screams of another. He looked down at the number imprinted onto his wrist. 401. He was the last one left it seemed. Nothing after him. And he was tired. So tired of this.

A woman came into his room. She placed a needle in his arm, and he watched lazily as his blood was sucked up through the poke and pull of the needle. He didn't flinch anymore. His arms were dotted with muted purple bruises, yellowed from when the needle wasn't properly clean.

"Are you hungry?" The woman asked, although her voice sounded harsh and Castiel blinked, shaking his head slowly. The woman lifted up his shirt, moving his arms aside like he was a doll. A puppet.

An _experiment_.

She picked at the stitches and Castiel let his eyes wander to the ceiling. Her hand went lower; fell heavy on the inside of his thigh. Her eyes were dark. Her fingers were confident, and Castiel almost told her to stop. He quickly discovered that his skin was tingling, numb but he could feel the heat of her palm, and his breathing stuttered. She left ten minutes later. He felt violated. Her warmth lingered on his skin.

Castiel had been alone for eighteen years.

* * *

"How are you feeling today?" The man wore white apron and gloves. He looked bored. Castiel tried his best to glare up at him. It came off as an unblinking, tired stare.

"I can't feel my arm." He responded, voice rough from disuse. The man's eyes flicked up to his, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"That all you can't feel?" Castiel didn't reply. The man dipped down, took his chin in his gloved hands and turned his head, up, right, left, down. "You're bruises have disappeared. That was quicker than last time." He let go of Castiel's chin, and wrote something down in the small notebook he held with him. "It seems like the antidote is working. Your body's not rejecting it."

There was a hint of pride in the man's voice, an undertone of excitement. Castiel didn't feel excited. He felt sick. His stomach churned dizzyingly, and he groaned softly, eyes fluttering. The man did nothing as Castiel bent over, heaving dryly onto the floor below his cot. The "bed" whined under his moving weight. The man left some time later, but not before slipping another needle into the underside of Castiel's arm.

Castiel took to counting the bruises that decorated his skin.

1…5…9…14…

* * *

Dean Winchester looked down at the woman lying below him.

Her red hair was spread out like a bleeding halo. He dipped down, touching the pulse point of her neck. Nothing.

"Shit." He muttered, eyes closing for a moment as his fingers pinched roughly at the bridge of his nose. "Shit." He repeated once again, eyes opening to study the woman once more. Gently he picked up her wrist, turned it and studied her number. 399. He shook his head and let her arm fall back down. She was fine a moment ago, before the silver shimmering bullet pierced through the back of her head and out of her forehead. She had told Dean enough to get him moving again, and he bent down and lifted her slim, limp body off the muddy floor of the alley. She had gotten far. Why she had escaped and then turned back was a mystery to Dean.

She had said a name though, and that's all Dean focused on at the moment. He walked nimbly down the street with her in his arms, the streetlamps letting off a sick yellow glow. The trains above his head shrieked through the night. Dean looked up at them longingly. One day he'd get on one of them. He'd leave.

He couldn't though, until his work was done. He shifted the woman in his arms, supporting her drooping frame with one arm until he opened the back door to the Impala and laid her down on the seat. He glanced up once more, the stars barely visible through the smoke and layers of clouded pollution. The apartments on either side of him were run down but sleek, and he took them all in. Green eyes followed up the road, and over the tops of the buildings he could see one that towered over the rest. No windows, nothing.

Again, Dean found himself amazed at the woman's drive and determination to escape. He stole another look at her in his car. But, if he truly thought about it, she hadn't really.

He felt the familiar jolt of failure cascade through him at the sight of her prone form and with a click of his tongue he slid into the front seat of the Impala, put the key in the ignition and brought her to life. He drove quickly through the deserted streets, pulled up behind the back of a tucked away shop. He knocked twice on the door and a bearded man answered. Dean grinned sourly, balancing the girl in his arms.

"Got another one, for ya, Bobby." The man regarded him silently, mouth pressed into a tight line.

"What are they doing to them?" He whispered, head shaking and he sighed, eyes coming up to meet Dean's. Neither of them had an answer. Or they already knew.

"Looking for something. No luck I guess." Dean answered, pushing past Bobby and going down the narrow hallway.

"Just put her on the table. I'll clean her up and burn the body after I have some dinner." Dean didn't answer, just laid her down gently and studied her forlornly for some time.

"I can't save any of them." He whispered, and Bobby was beside him, hand a heavy weight on his shoulder.

"You got two out once. You and Sam. Sent 'em right on out of this hellhole. Don't write off everything you do as failures, boy." Dean swallowed thickly, nodded and let out a choked chuckle.

"She was going back, Bobby." The man turned small eyes upward, and scratched beneath the hat on his head.

"What the hell for?" He asked and Dean felt his mouth twist into a sour smile.

"She said there was someone she couldn't leave behind. She tried, almost got to the station before she headed back."

"Family?" Bobby guessed and Dean shrugged.

"Dunno. But I got a name."

"Well, let's hear it." Dean focused on the woman's face. She was pretty. Simple features, but defined. She was skeletally thin.

"Number 401. Castiel Novak."

* * *

I'm not too sure about this yet, but I love SPN and I wanted to write SOMETHING about it.

Please review, it would mean a lot, and keep me writing!


	2. I'm Tired

Disclaimer| I do not own. Obviously. I wish I did though.

A/N| I love supernatural and I love the concept of angels, so I wanted to go a bit deeper into that. This is not a happy story. It's hopeful.

Summary| Angels are a rare species. There's something in their blood the government needs. Castiel is the only one to have survived this long. Dean will do whatever it takes to save him.

* * *

The Trains ran screaming above the roofs of The City.

They were clunky, and loud, and would run even without anyone on board, just mocking the remaining few who didn't have enough for a ticket. Sam and Dean had enough at times. But they had used up all their currency since then. Smuggling Angels out of The City was nearly impossible. In eighteen years they've only managed it twice.

Their first failure was the worst, and Dean didn't like to dwell on it so Sam didn't usually bring it up. He was only four at the time, he didn't remember much except for a sweep of blonde hair and their father's screams. Dean remembered everything though. So Sam was careful not to bring it up.

Often, Sam and Dean would drive up to the Station, park, and watch the Trains leave. They would both fantasize about what it would be like to be sitting on one, not looking back, just going forward.

Not many people knew what life was like outside of The City. The people who had left never came back. In Sam's mind anywhere but The City must look like heaven. Maybe it was where the Angels came from. He had asked Dean once, when they were little and their dad was still with them, why The City wanted the Angels. What was so important? Dean had looked up from bandaging a cut on his knuckles to regard Sam almost tiredly.

"Because they're different, Sammy. Humans aren't keen on differences."

"How are they different?" Dean had clenched his teeth, shook his head and looked out the window at the Trains rushing by.

"They're beautiful, and pure, and can live far longer than we can. Imagine the strength their DNA could bring to us." His voice had taken on a monotonous edge and Sam had dropped the subject afterwards. A few hours later their father had come in smelling like alcohol and cheap rolled cigarettes. Dean had left early that morning to go and try to make back the money John had blown.

* * *

"So his name's Castiel and he's number 401. He the last one or something?"

Dean shrugged out of his jacket, the leather crinkling as he threw it carelessly on the futon where Sam was sitting, lap covered with papers and files. The lights of the City outside cast a dull glow into their otherwise dim apartment, the only direct light coming from the small lamp connected to the wall beside Sam's head.

"I dunno. Maybe. But we got a name and we got a number, and that's more than we usually have." Sam nodded, leaning back with a tired groan, moving the papers off his lap and onto the small table before him. Dean sat down in a wooden chair opposite the futon, rubbing his hand roughly through his short hair.

"I lost 399 tonight, Sam. She was shot through the head." Sam's eyes seemed to flash and his jaw clenched unconsciously.

"So they're killing the ones that escape now?"

"I guess they're closer to their goal or else they'd keep her alive, wouldn't they?" Sam shrugged, shaking his head and sighing.

"You would think. Look, Dean, I'm not sure if this last Angel can be saved. I mean, maybe we shouldn't…" But he trailed off at the darkening of his brother's face, the way Dean's hands had fisted in his lap.

"You don't think we should at least try and save it?" His words were biting and sharp and Sam immediately regretted saying anything.

"Dean, I mean, look, we've given our lives to helping them. We almost have enough saved up to get out of here! Wouldn't you rather leave?" The silence that followed was thick and heavy, and Dean stood, eyes darting to the Train's lights outside.

"No. It's like you said, we've given our lives to this. Why give up on the last one?" Sam slumped back against the tattered fabric of the futon, biting his lip in thought. Dean turned away, going to the small fridge on the other side of the room and jerking it open. He closed it harder than he had meant to, but he picked up his jacket and shrugged it back on.

"Where are you going?" Sam called as Dean reached the door, and Dean's hand hesitated on the handle.

"For a drink. I'll be back later." Sam didn't respond, just listened as the door clicked shut behind his brother. Silently, he walked over to the kitchen, opened up the fridge and looked inside.

Three brown bottles stared up at him.

* * *

The bar Dean usually visited was underground, hidden because alcohol was getting hard to come by and the police were closing down pubs like crazy.

The air was familiar around the counter, sour almost, and heavy with smoke and dirty words. Dean took a stool near the end, the bartender recognizing him immediately.

"Shit, you look like hell." He observed, placing a holder in front of Dean followed by a glazed shot glass. He poured Dean's usual into the clear cylinder. Dean shook his head, sighed and tilted his head back, downing the shot in one.

"Just one of those days, Ash." He responded and Ash nodded, filling his glass again.

"I feel ya. The institution has seemed even more uptight lately. Won't let anyone tour anymore. I think they're closer to their goal or some shit like that." Dean relished in the cold burn of the alcohol as it slithered down his throat like blood. He hated drinking, he truly did, but it was times like this where he couldn't bring himself to care as much about it as he would have liked.

"What're they doing to 'em in there anyway? Can't be looking for halos or anything like that?" Ash shrugged, filling his glass almost instantly.

"You got me, man. Those fucking bastards are ruining the purest thing left in the world."

"You shouldn't talk like that." A woman by Dean hissed, red nails picking at the wood beneath her fingers. "They'll kill you for it." She continued noticing the blank look she got from the two men to her right. Dean grinned then, leaning forward and taking her in. She wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, but he met her gaze evenly and she let her tongue slide slowly over her bottom lip.

"You're not scared of them?" She whispered and Dean shrugged, grin slipping slightly around the edges, turning into something a bit more predatorily.

"I have no reason to be. They're cowards. They hide behind their badges and masks and attack when your backs turned."

"Seems like you have some experience with them." Dean shook his head, righting himself but noticing how she had turned to him, legs slightly parted, just enough to give him a glimpse of the smooth skin of her inner thigh. Usually he would take advantage of a situation like this. But now he was too tired.

She wasn't his type anyway.

* * *

It was cold as Dean walked the streets, the alcohol sitting warm and thick in his veins.

He swayed slightly on the curb, his insides twisting at the rough jerk. His eyes trailed up the stars bleeding silently through the polluted governed sky. The buildings around him looked brown and melting, and he absently kicked an empty bottle at his feet. It skittered to his left and shattered somewhere off in the dark. He hadn't realized where he was until he was face to face with a tall cement wall, towering at least eleven feet above his head.

Behind it a tall skyscraper was raised, no windows, and no doors that he could see. He spit at the bottom of the wall.

His breathing had picked up and he walked along the barrier of the wall, studying the foundation. He and Sam and snuck in before, they still had the uniforms. He should wait for Sam before he tried anything. Before he risked everything. It physically hurt for him to walk away, his teeth grinding together as he tried to keep a hold on his emotions. He hated them.

He hated the doctors, the scientists, the fucking government officials.

_His mom was holding their father's hand, her hospital gown scratching against her pale, bruised skin as they ran._

Dean stumbled some, his breathing picking up as he looked back at the building once more.

_"Come on Dean, come on baby, you have to keep running. You can't look back, don't look back–"_

"I'm sorry." Dean choked, feet catching on the broken cement below him and he fell heavily to his knees. "Fuck…" His hands scratched at his head and he screwed his eyes shut. "Stop…" He whispered as his mother's face came into view, eyes blue and scared and she was so broken, too broken, and Dean had stopped, his small hand slipping from hers. She stopped with him, trying to gather him up–

"Stop." Dean growled, hitting his hands against the top of his head. The images swayed in front of him before they disappeared with his mother shielding him. She was always shielding him. Always, always…

_"It's okay, baby. Angels are watching over you." _

Dean staggered to his feet.

He walked numbly back to his and Sam's apartment. Sam was spread out on the futon and Dean disappeared into the tiny adjoining room, collapsing heavily on the box spring mattress that took up the expanse of the floor.

He didn't cry.

* * *

When Dean and Sam awoke they took their duffle and filled it with everything they could think of, old badges, the doctor's uniforms, gloves, boots, finger DNA clips.

They headed over to Bobby's the sun just rising although it was still dark. It was always dark in The City. Sometimes you would get a nice sunrise. Today they almost had it.

"My head's killing me." Dean grumbled and Sam ignored him, shoulders tensing as they made their way down the street. They never took the Impala on jobs like this. She was too recognizable. Bobby answered the door after the third knock and slapped a large hand on Sam's shoulder.

"It's been a while, boy. How've you been?"

"Fine, Bobby. What about you?" The man shrugged and ushered the two brother's inside. Dean's eyes fell immediately to the table the Angel was on the night before. No signs indicated that she had ever lain there. The surface was perfectly clean.

"You two idjits be careful, you hear me? No dragging the police into this like the last time. I damn well almost lost my house." Dean grinned crookedly, nodding while Sam promised nothing as flashy as last time. They placed the finger DNA clips over their thumbs, the blood inside still kept from their last visit. Dean stuck the gloves in his pockets. The two boys got dressed silently, and before heading out Bobby let them take a swig out of his silver flask.

"I except to see an Angel when you boys get back." Sam smiled at that.

"So do we."

Dean didn't say anything.

He just thought of his mother's eyes and inhaled a shaky breath.

Don't look back, don't stop; just keep running.

* * *

Castiel never liked it when they came into his room.

They would crowd around and two of them would be holding a syringe, while three others wheeled in a narrow metal table.

"It's Thursday." One said. The rest nodded. Castiel let them help him to his feet, and he tried not to think too much as they slipped the needles into his arms.

"It's Thursday." They repeated. They picked Castiel up and laid him across the metallic surface, securing his arms and legs down with a strap made of a fiber Castiel couldn't break. A longer one was placed over his waist. The room spun as they wheeled him out. The florescent lights bloomed above his eyes, made him tired. He turned his head to his right. A doctor with green eyes stared heavily down at him. Castiel didn't recognize him. When the man winked Castiel's brow furrowed but he said nothing. He couldn't really, not with how his vision was already swimming.

"It's Thursday." The doctor with green eyes whispered. Castiel felt the table stop it's movement down the hall. The other doctors seemed to freeze, their hands twitching as they turned to look at the man with the green eyes. There was another man to the right of Castiel, he was tall and his expression was more focused than that of his counterpart. He was holding something black in his hands, something that made the other doctors still.

No one moved. The straps around Castiel's wrists loosened, his waist free again and he rolled his head to his left, the green eyed man looking softly down at him.

"Close your eyes." He whispered, words muffled by the mask covering his mouth. Castiel obeyed. Warm hands cradled the back of his head, wrapped beneath his knees and he was pulled up, held tight to the warmth of the man with green eyes.

Castiel had never been warm before.

He heard the shuffling of feet, the outraged cries of the others and then there was a dreadful shot and the chilling thud of a body crumbling to the ground. And he was being moved. He opened his eyes, even though he was told to close them, and studied the man holding him. The hallway was passing by in a blur, and the man didn't look back, didn't stop running. The taller male was back a ways, but catching up. There were a couple of red dots scattered across the white fabric of his shirt.

"You're…you're not them." Castiel whispered, and the man holding him looked down, his eyes shining with pride, and excitement, and victory.

"Hell no." He laughed, hold tightening around Castiel. "I'm getting you out of here, Angel." Castiel's vision swam. He was aware that they crashed heavily down the stairs, and vaguely he could hear the shrill call of a red alarm screaming throughout the white halls of his imprisonment. He had never seen these floors before. The taller male had gotten in front of them, and he didn't hesitate to take out anyone who came near.

"Sam! This way!" The man holding Castiel shouted and Castiel focused on breathing, his breaths had grown shallow. His head fell against the green-eyed man's chest and he let his eyes slip closed. He didn't know how long they had been running but he jumped in the man's hold when a blast of cold fell like rain against his skin. His eyes flew open and his mouth went slack, the air around him feeling clean and pure and…and…was that the sun? It was just how Anna had described it. The longer he looked at it the more his eyes burned, but he couldn't turn his gaze away.

Tears fell steadily down his face and the man holding him shook him slightly. He tore his gaze away from the sky. The green eyes were hard but there was something bright behind them. He stole a glance over the man's shoulder. A tall building was disappearing behind them, growing smaller, and Castiel heard the man huff out a curse before ducking inside the tucked away stretch between two buildings.

The taller male, Sam wasn't it? appeared beside them, pulling the mask covering his mouth away with a staggering huff. He had a light scratch on his cheek, and his hands were shaking some as he through the black object to the bricks beneath him.

And then he smiled. It was bright and welcoming, and he looked down with Castiel with the most childlike wonder the Angel had ever seen.

"Holy fuck, Dean! We did it! We fucking did it!" Dean gave out a breathless laugh and they moved through the alley, quiet now but the air about them buzzing with excitement. Castiel shivered and Dean held him closer.

"Hey, you okay?" He whispered, and it took Castiel a moment to realize he was directing the question to him. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer.

"I am not sure…what's…what's happening?"

"Just calm down. You're safe now. We're gonna get you out of here. Okay?" The total assurance in the man's words made Castiel breathe a bit steadier, and he nodded, eyes drooping.

Dean's arms were growing sore, but damn, the Angel was lighter than he thought he would be, and he followed Sam steadily behind the backs of shops and other establishments. Bobby was waiting for them outside, his door opened, and his eyes were wide and urgent as he ushered the two boys and an Angel inside.

"Ellen's here." He hushed, and Dean didn't truly hear him as he climbed the stairs to his right to Bobby's room. He heard Sam stumbling around downstairs, telling Bobby to hook up the curtains on the windows. No doubt The City was already out looking for them. Dean cradled the Angel gently in his arms; it felt that if he held on too tightly he would break in his hold. He pushed open a small door, closed it and stumbled about a dark room for a moment before lowering Castiel on a small bed. He groaned as his small frame hit the blankets and Dean's heart clenched.

Castiel's eyes were as blue as his mother's were. He couldn't stand looking at them. But he helped Castiel get situated, pulled the blankets around his shivering frame.

"Hey, hey, can you hear me?" He asked, hands hovering over the Angels' thin frame. He nodded dumbly and Dean began to worry if maybe he was sick. He looked like it. "You in pain? Anywhere, does anywhere hurt?" Those eyes met his and it made his stomach coil.

"Thank you." He whispered, voice rough and broken, but whole, deep, and Dean wasn't sure what to say. The door behind him opened and a woman with brown hair and wise eyes stepped in.

"Okay, Dean, up. I need to check him, make sure he's okay. Don't want him dying on us." Dean nodded, standing and throwing one last look at the crumbled Angel on the floor. He was so pale his skin almost seemed to glow in the dark, and the purple bruises that decorated his arms and neck made Dean want kill something. He shook his head and left Ellen to it, his adrenaline rush dying down and the worry came back. Sam and Bobby were seated at the table, a bottle of bourbon between them. Dean took a seat and reached out, grasping the bottle's neck as he took a swig. He met Sam's eyes. They were glowing, they were so bright, and filled with such exhalation that Dean couldn't help but smile.

"Fuck, we did it." He whispered, shaking his head as he passed the alcohol to Sam who took it gratefully.

"You two idjits are gonna kill me one day." Bobby grumbled, patting Dean harshly on the back. Dean grinned, feeling the happiest he had in months. They spent that night around the table, Ellen coming down every now and then to get a clean rag or some water, and on occasion a swig of bourbon for herself. When they asked how Castiel was doing she'd shake her head.

"Those bastards really did a number on him." She replied and then would disappear up the stairs once more. That night they turned on Bobby's small TV, watching the news reports about the stolen Angel and tried their best to look as inconspicuous as possible when the police arrived at their door every hour to check to see if they had seen Angel 401. When they said no they weren't lying.

They had seen the Angel _Castiel_.

* * *

Reviews are greatly appreciated! And so is constructive criticism! Thank you for reading!


	3. And I want to go to bed

Disclaimer| I do not own. Obviously. I wish I did though.

A/N| I love supernatural and I love the concept of angels, so I wanted to go a bit deeper into that. This is not a happy story. It's hopeful.

Summary| Angels are a rare species. There's something in their blood the government needs. Castiel is the only one to have survived this long. Dean will do whatever it takes to save him.

* * *

Shops were closed down the next day.

So were The Trains.

It was eerily quiet. It was dead.

Dean and Sam didn't return to their apartment. They stayed with Bobby, Ellen coming to check in on Castiel every couple hours. He had been asleep all day. Dean went up there once, early in the morning, to find him dry heaving against the floor. He had helped him clean up, gave him one of his shirts and a pair of old sweat pants, and Castiel had fallen into a fever induced sleep afterwards. They burned his hospital clothes in the small fireplace in Bobby's living room. It was no question how sick Castiel was, and Ellen had said that soup was the only thing his stomach could handle at the moment. They placed a small bucket in his room.

His body was trying to rid itself of the toxins they had placed in his blood. Dean had seen the stitches on his sides, could almost count the man's ribs. Jo, Ellen's daughter had made them enough soup to last the week, and she took to feeding Castiel. She sat with him for long periods of time in the dark, watching, making sure he was breathing normally. Dean wanted to check on the Angel but he didn't. Instead he sat with Bobby and listened to the news, watched as the police scanned the streets, as helicopters and searchlights scoured the area. It was all very surreal. Sam walked Jo home around ten.

Bobby had taken to sitting in one of his armchairs, reading a book about the origins of Angels. Dean, bored and on edge, took to the stairs and made his way into Castiel's small makeshift room, hidden behind the wall of Bobby's own. It was secretive, hidden away. A perfect safe haven for Castiel. Dean opened the door as quietly as he could, incase Castiel had fallen asleep. The Angel looked to be awake, he was sitting against the wall, staring dazed out of the small attic window. He didn't acknowledge Dean's presence, but he didn't seem to mind when Dean sat down a couple feet away from him, following his blue gaze out the window as well.

"I've missed the stars." Castiel whispered suddenly, and Dean stole a glance at his profile, outlined in yellow by the lights of the buildings and apartments outside. They sat in silence for some time, the sounds of a helicopters propeller wheezing overhead. Dean stole a glance at the Angel's arms. They were so beaten. So overused. He flinched just looking at them.

"How long were you in there?" Dean asked, his voice almost too loud in the deathly stillness of the air about them. Castiel shifted, eyes turning away from the window to study Dean with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable.

"Eighteen years." He answered quietly, and Dean felt his breath stutter.

"That's a long time." He whispered, and Castiel nodded.

"Yes. It is." He confirmed, jaw clenching before he turned to look out the window once more. His voice was still rough, still scratchy.

"Sorry we didn't get to you sooner." The Angel shook his head, a subtle movement, barely there, and when he spoke he seemed tired. He looked old.

"I am just grateful that you came at all. I prayed when I first arrived there, every night that I would be saved. I stopped praying after ten years." The silence that fell was heavy, and sad and overbearing, and under any other set of circumstances Dean would feel uncomfortable and leave. Now, he felt compelled to stay. To listen. Because it's not everyday you get to talk to an Angel.

"The night before you came I prayed one last time." There was a faint twitch of Castiel's lips, a fading smile, and Dean wanted to see it again. He wanted to see the softness of the Angel's face. The hard lines didn't suit him.

"I got your name from and Angel who escaped. Didn't get her name though."

"What was her number?"

"399." Castiel seemed to become alert at that, gaze snapping to meet Dean's once more.

"Where is she?" He urged, hope outlining his features and making his eyes shine. Dean swallowed heavily; breaking eye contact, looking at the mud caked into his boots.

"She was shot." He answered eventually, and he couldn't bring himself to meet Castiel's imploring gaze. The Angel before him seemed to deflate at that, eyes become dull and unseeing as he studied the outside world. "Who was she?" Dean asked after some time, and he hated the nosy part of him, the part of his brain that couldn't control his mouth. Castiel didn't seem to mind though.

"My sister. Our uncle dropped us off at the institution when I was eight Anna was ten. We were separated not long after." Dean didn't know what to say. So he remained silent. It was comfortable though this time, and he felt a bit more at ease in the Angel's presence.

"You need anything?" He asked after some time and the blue eyes were on his again. He realized now that they weren't like his mother's; they were lighter around the edges, more clear. More hopeful. They were beautiful.

"Why are you helping me?" The Angel questioned, tilting his head curiously to the left. Dean swallowed then and stood, eyes never leaving Castiel's.

"Goodnight, Castiel. You should get some sleep." The Angel regarded him silently, seemingly judging something for where he was sitting but he nodded, slouching down a bit. He tucked himself up, curled in a fetal position on the small mattress. Absently Dean wondered if he slept like that on instinct, if it was how he learned to protect himself so he could sleep in the institution.

That thought made him sick and he left soon after, closing the door on the Angel and trying not to look back.

* * *

Ellen Harvelle didn't know what to expect when Bobby had called her at 4:30 am to tell her that Dean and Sam were on one of their "hunting trips" and she needed to be on hand.

Just in case.

She arrived as soon as she could, sitting down in the living room with Bobby and watching the clock, listening to the world outside. When they heard the sirens they knew the boys had won. This round anyway. She hovered behind Bobby in the small hallway, watched as Dean stumbled in, a thin man with wild hair and striking eyes cradled in his arms. When Ellen saw him she felt something ignite in her chest. Hope maybe. It was a soft kind of warmth and she hadn't felt anything like it in years.

So this was what an Angel looked like.

Her breath left her for a moment and she didn't know what to do with herself. She watched as Dean barely hesitated, didn't even glance her way as he made his way up the stairs, trying to get Castiel to safety as soon and as quickly as possible. The sirens were loud, shrill throughout The City, and Ellen watched warily as Sam stumbled inside. His cheek was bleeding, and his knuckles bruised. He smiled a lopsided grin, eyes sparkling.

"Hey, Ellen." He sounded exhausted but in a wholly satisfying way. Ellen couldn't help the grin that broke her rough exterior. She pulled Sam into a rough hug, fingers digging into the course fabric of his uniform. He smelled like disinfectant and medicine, and she grimaced against the hospital odors.

"You had me scared there for a while." She confessed, tightening her hold on him as she felt his large arms wrap around her in turn.

"Sorry." Was all Sam could think to say. He wasn't really. He was too excited to be sorry. Ellen pulled away, catching Bobby's eyes softly before turning her attention back to Sam.

"Ruby stopped by. She was looking for you." Ellen confessed as she excused herself to head up the stairs. She didn't hear Sam's response. She personally didn't care much for Sam's "girlfriend", if that's what she even was.

Ellen found Dean standing unsure by the Angel and as he brushed by her she could tell he was shaking. When the Angel turned a familiar blue gaze up at her she knew.

He had Mary's eyes.

* * *

"How long do you boys plan on staying here?"

Bobby questioned, and Dean shrugged, took another swig from the chilled beer in his hands. He moved his empty plate off the table so he could prop his feet up.

"Dunno. Until Cas gets better I guess." Sam sent Dean a confused stare.

"Cas?"

"Castiel. Cas. The Angel upstairs." Dean huffed, sinking lower into the cushions of the armchair he was seated in. Sam's eyes were still boring into him and it made the irritation creep into his voice involuntarily.

"What?" He snapped and Sam grinned before shrugging, turning to look to Bobby.

"Nothing. You just got a nickname for him already."

"What's wrong with that?" Dean questioned, suddenly embarrassed.

"Don't get attached, boy." It was Bobby who spoke now and Dean turned a heated gaze on him. "He could die any day." Dean wasn't sure why the reality of the situation turned his blood cold. He had already considered this. Hell, he had come to terms with everyone he surrounded himself dying some day. It was only a matter of time after all. But hearing Bobby verbalize it so _casually_, as though the Angel was nothing more than an object, no, a _number_, made the anger rush to his head.

"I'm not letting anyone else die. I'm getting him out of here."

"How? On the Train? Do you have any idea how much that's gonna cost–?"

"We've done it before, Bobby. Sam and I. Twice. I know perfectly well what I'm doing so just get off my back." The older man sighed tiredly, meeting Dean's stare with one far wiser.

"You just be careful. He's the last one. It's gonna be harder than the last coupla times." Dean didn't say anything, just finished off his beer and pushed himself out of the armchair.

"You mind if I crash here for the night?" Bobby shrugged, eyeing the couch and then Sam.

"I'm not staying." Sam answered, getting up and stretching with a groan. "I'll head back."

"Ruby call or something?" Sam sent a leveled glare Dean's way, jaw clenching with the distasteful tone his brother had taken.

"Dean, please, don't start this now. I'm too tired." Dean held up his hands in mock surrender, making his way into the small kitchen to dig another beer out of the fridge.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to." Sam retorted before slipping on his jacket and, with one last word to Bobby, slipped out into the night. Dean shook his head and leaned heavily against the counter, popping the cap off the brown bottle with his teeth and watching as it fell to the tiles below his feet with a dull clink. Bobby filled the kitchen's doorway, sighing as he stared at Dean.

"That idjit better be careful out there. It'll look suspicious that he's out so late."

"He hasn't been caught for anything yet. He'll be fine." Bobby considered this for a long moment, and for a while only the hushed voices of the TV and the mocking wail of the Train tearing through the sky was the only noise around.

"I mean it Dean. Don't get attached. He'll probably be dead within the next couple of days." Dean clinched his jaw, eyed the remainder of his beverage before setting the half-full bottle on the counter.

"I just…I have to do this, Bobby. You know I have to do this." The older man regarded him silently for a moment before striding forward, standing before Dean and the counter.

"You gotta stop blaming yourself, son." He whispered, and his words pulled on the cords of Dean's heart. He couldn't handle this speech right now. Not when he had had such a good day.

"Bobby–"

"Her death wasn't your fault. It's theirs. They're the ones that pulled the trigger, not you an' not Sam." When Dean didn't respond Bobby placed a rough hand on his shoulder, his blunt nails digging into the skin of his neck. "Ya hearing me?"

"Yeah, Bobby, I know. I get it."

"I don't think you do."

"I'm not having this conversation now. Not now." And he shrugged out of Bobby's hold, side stepping him to the couch once more. He sat down heavily, purposefully avoiding Bobby's gaze as he turned up the volume on the TV. A man's face was filling the screen. He wore a suit, a tie, and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He made Dean's blood boil. Dick Roman. He founded the institutions about twenty-five years ago. Dean didn't really focus on what he was saying. It didn't matter. Dick didn't matter. All that mattered was the Angel upstairs, and getting him out of here. He heard Bobby grunt out a not-too-subtle "idjit" before he climbed the stairs, no doubt heading into the hidden room to check on Castiel. To make sure he was still breathing. Dean had a feeling he was.

Dick was still speaking when Dean threw the remote. It hit the TV, cracked the corner of the screen and Dick buzzed and blurred on impact. Dean remembered Roman. He remembered him holding a gun. He remembered him pulling the trigger. He remembered his mother breaking on the ground.

And he remembered their house going up in flames.

* * *

Castiel wasn't used to sleeping so soundly.

He awoke in a cold sweat, his eyes seeing well in the dark and for a moment he forgot where he was. Then he recalled green eyes and warm hands and kind words and he felt himself relax, felt the tension roll from his shoulders and he sighed. His head was pounding and it was strange to have food near him. A bowel of soup placed gently by his head. It was cold now, but when Jo had brought it up to him it had been warm. Castiel already missed the brash girl's presence. She had reminded him of Anna. And he wanted to talk more with the man–Dean wasn't it?–who had saved him.

He tried sitting up. His arms shook and his head swam but he managed to stand nonetheless. It felt strange. His knees were trembling violently but he tried to ignore them in favor of walking around the small room he was in. The sweatpants they had let him wear hung low, so he fumbled with the elastic straps some, pulling the material tighter and higher up on his waist.

He shivered, cold again with the draft and the still air. He was still not used to how this place could smell so clean, without the hint of medicine or needles or morphine he had grown so accustomed to smelling.

His legs felt a bit stronger, and he was not as dizzy as he opened the door and peeked out into the adjoining room. The man with the beard was asleep on a small bed, one arm dangling off, fingers brushing against the hilt of what Castiel could only assume was a gun. It looked to be the same dark object that the tall male was carrying earlier on. Sam wasn't it? Wasn't that what Dean had called him? His feet were light and silent against the wooden floorboards, he didn't make a sound as he descended the stairs, carefully avoiding the steps that seem to stick up near the ends. The hallway he landed in was dark; there was barely any light. The only source seemed to be coming from the gaps in a group of curtains covering a window past the kitchen.

There was a figure draped across the expanse of the couch, and as Castiel made his way over he could make out Dean's face in the shadows. Distantly, he could hear sirens. Guilt washed over him as he studied Dean's features, softened in the depths of sleep.

He was putting them all in danger staying here, and they've all been so kind. Too kind. He didn't know how to repay them. But he did know how to keep them from harm. These humans. He couldn't leave yet, not with the way his legs had begun to tingle and his breathing had already started to grow heavier. He would have to stay here for a while yet, just until his strength had returned. He sat himself down, not being able to keep himself upright for much longer. It was shameful, how weak he had become over the years.

Shameful.

He studied Dean, watched as his chest rose and fell with each intake and exhale, how he would stir occasionally and his fingers would twitch on the light blanket covering him. Castiel didn't know how he could possibly repay him. He would, he was sure, in time. Castiel wasn't aware he had fallen asleep. Not until he had felt hands scoop him up in a familiar hold and he was being moved through the dark floors of the house. He jolted awake, alert, scared, blue eyes impossibly wide in the dark.

"Calm down, it's me. What the hell were you thinking, getting out of bed? Seriously, Cas, do you wanna get caught?" Castiel blinked, the voice making him calm and he shook his head although he knew Dean couldn't see.

"I needed to move. I haven't…been able to walk freely in years…"

"Yeah, okay. Just don't come downstairs. They can see you through the windows." Castiel leaned his head against Dean's chest, listening to his heart. It was calming, relaxing, and he barely realized when Dean lowered him back onto his mattress. "Go to sleep, Cas. No more wandering."

Castiel slept with the stars above his head and warmth in his heart.

* * *

Reviews are greatly appreciated! And so is constructive criticism! Thank you for reading!


	4. Don't Try to wake me

Disclaimer| I do not own. Obviously. I wish I did though.

**A/N**| _I_ know I already uploaded this chapter but I wasn't happy with the ending so I went back and made it longer. So if you've already seen this chapter you're at the end. Sorry if this complicates anything.

* * *

The nightmares were something Castiel could normally control.

He supposed that it was difficult this time because he was in a new environment. He was somewhere alien. He was too comfortable. Sometimes the man with the beard would come in, tell him to be quiet. He used the word "idjit" a lot and Castiel was unsure of its definition. Dean would usually sit himself by the window, told him to go to sleep and that was that. Ironically Castiel slept best those nights. Dean let him walk around on the first floor whenever he wanted to stretch his legs. Most nights Ellen would bring him soup, but he didn't have much of an appetite, and her work would go to waste.

The police were becoming restless, and no one was allowed in the streets, the only time they were permitted to go outside was between ten and eleven am, and that was usually the time Sam would arrive, bringing food and checking on their alcohol situation. Sometimes he'd bring Ruby, whose eyes would meet Dean's with a mutual level of distaste. He never talked to her, and he made sure Sam didn't tell her about Castiel.

He didn't trust her. Never did, and never would. Castiel only saw Ruby once. He had caught sight of dark brown hair, trimmed eyebrows and full lips. From what he could tell she was lovely, although he caught sight of Dean shooting him an urgent glare and he had disappeared into his temporary living space before she could see. Sam seemed to trust her, so he often found himself wondering why Dean didn't.

"It's just something about her, man. I dunno. She always looks like she's up to something." Dean tried to explain one morning, the sun just rising above the shackled roofs and the Train's empty iron tracks. Castiel hadn't had a good night, the nightmares more vivid, and Dean had come up to sit with him, had handed him some water and told him to stop screaming, someone would hear.

"Has she ever done anything to warrant your distrust in her?" Dean shook his head, biting at his thumb absentmindedly.

"Not yet."

"I don't understand–"

"Don't worry about it, it's nothing. How's your head?" Castiel regarded Dean in silence for a moment; studying green eyes to try and determine the different emotions he could see pooling in their depths.

"Better. It hurts less now." When Dean didn't respond Castiel sat up higher against the wall, his back feeling sore and slightly tingly from the effects of what Ellen had diagnosed as a "fever". It had been three days since Dean and Sam had saved him from the institution, and although his body was growing weaker his mind was not. "Dean." The man seemed to snap out of whatever daze he was in, turning his body so that he could face Castiel more fully.

"Yeah?"

"If I have become to much of a burden–"

"Damn, Cas, don't start this again."

"…Then I understand entirely if you or Bobby or Sam would prefer me to take my leave. I am putting everyone in danger, Dean, and while I appreciate all that you are trying to do, I cannot–"

"Enough alright? Just, stop. You're no trouble, and c'mon, Cas, let's be realistic. You wouldn't last ten minutes out there on your own, at least not how you are now."

"But–"

"And I promised I'd get you out of here, didn't I? Don't worry, I don't scare easy." And when Dean grinned his cocky self-reliant smirk Castiel felt something foreign and warm bloom throughout his chest. It was strange, but not unpleasant, and the feeling only seemed to intensify the longer him and Dean stared at each other. Castiel swallowed, his throat becoming dry, and his eyebrows creased in frustration.

"Why are you helping me?" Castiel asked, for the second time since meeting Dean. The air then seemed to change then, shape into something a bit heavier, a bit more demanding. Dean gritted his teeth, turned his gaze to look out the window.

"Can't you just be grateful and move on?"

"I'm serious, Dean."

"Yeah? Well so am I. What's so strange about wanting to help someone?"

"I'm not just someone, Dean. I'm an Angel."

"What difference does that make?" Castiel was taken aback by the biting undertone of Dean's words, but more so of the fact that Dean didn't just seem to view him as an object, as a weapon, as an experiment or a doll. And that alien warmth was back again and Castiel didn't know what to say. He could sense the tension rolling off of Dean in waves, could feel his guilt, his frustration. He could see how truly broken he really was.

He didn't think as he reached out his hand, gently laying it over the top of Dean's slightly larger one. The man flinched, green eyes seeming to pull blank as he stared down at Castiel's fingers laying overtop his own. His gaze met the Angel's blue and for a moment the human was lost. How long had it been since he had been touched like this? Soothing and chaste, and not asking anything in return.

"It is not blame that falls on you, Dean." Castiel whispered, his voice imploring in the darkness of the small room. "It is not wise to live in the past. To dwell on mistakes of guilt and loss. It will only slow you down." For a moment Dean couldn't form the words to speak. Castiel's hand was warm, and soft, and comforting, and in that instant Dean realized that Castiel was wrong. He saw flames and he saw blood and he saw himself stopping in the middle of the road to watch.

"I'm not helping you because I feel guilty." Dean whispered, hand flipping up so that he could grip Castiel's palm in his. The Angel seemed unsettled at the action but Dean found that he didn't care. He thought of Dick Roman and he held on tighter. "I was at first but not anymore. I'm helping you because I want to, Cas. Isn't that enough?" The Angel's eyes softened immensely, the deep blue glazing into a feathered sapphire and Dean didn't see his mom this time. He saw Castiel.

He saw _Cas_.

* * *

"His fever's dropping." Jo announced, coming down the stairs with a wet rag in her hands. She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind one ear, eyes scanning the room. Dean and Ellen didn't say anything, but Bobby nodded and huffed as he stood.

"Well that's good. Maybe he'll live longer than I thought." Dean seemed to tense at his words but said nothing, gaze dropping down to stare at his hands. Jo walked into the kitchen, placed down the rag and looked at the clock. 10:15.

"I'm going to head back. Just in case an officer wants to talk." Ellen stood then, patting Dean on the shoulder before walking forward to join her daughter by the door.

"Call me if his fever comes back." Ellen called and Bobby ran a tired hand across his face.

"You got it. You two be careful out there."

"Will do!" Jo called, eyes flashing back to Dean who gave her a small wave. She grinned warmly and closed the door behind her and her mother. The air outside was cold, the bakeries opened for this hour only and the smell of fresh baked dough rolled like melted sugar across the air. Jo shivered, pulling her jacket tighter across her slim frame. She breathed out, watching as her breath bellowed out in white huffs of smoke.

"He's gonna live, isn't he?" Jo asked after a while, and Ellen's dark eyes were on her, analyzing.

"I think so, baby. I hope so at least." Jo nodded, gaze turning to look up at the tracks. The Train whistled by, blowing through their hair and blasting a fierce bitter wind their way.

"I guess the rail's are open during this hour too." Jo commented thoughtfully, watching as the Train raced on through the sky. Ellen didn't respond. But she did pull her daughter into a nearby deli, bought two bundles of bread and a jar of jam and together, arm in arm, mother and daughter walked home through the wind.

* * *

Sam didn't tell Ruby about Castiel.

No matter how much he wanted to he had kept his mouth shut. It was around 10:52 as he and Ruby made their way down the street, each carrying a small bag so that they could stay the night. Bobby had agreed on the extra company, on account of him heading on over to Rufus's so they could load up on ammunition just incase the police caught wind of anything. Sam didn't tell Dean Ruby was coming.

As soon as he opened the door and watched Dean's face he knew he probably should have mentioned something. His brother's eyes grew dark, his jaw firm, and he gave the newcomers a sour smile. He was sitting on the couch; legs propped up, beer in hand. The TV was on, a woman talking about how to catch an Angel and if caught how you should turn it in immediately. There was a crack on the TV's screen that hadn't been there before. Sam wondered if it was Dean or Bobby.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Dean snapped, and Sam had to curl his hand into a fist to keep himself from lashing out.

"Jesus, Dean…"

"Nice to see you too." Ruby cut in, tilting her head up so she was looking at him down her nose. Her chestnut hair was pulled behind her shoulders and as Dean stood up from his position on the couch Sam immediately regretted coming here. Even with the extra food for Castiel this was ridiculous.

"Ruby, if you want we can drop the food and go." Dean laughed at that, shaking his head before taking another swig of his beer.

"No, I'm fine here. If Dean doesn't like it then _he_ can leave."

"I was here first, princess. And I'm not going anywhere." He set the now empty bottle on the table top, pushing past Ruby and Sam to the steps. Sam caught his arm, hoping that the tightening of his grip was enough warning for Dean to back the fuck _down_. But Dean just shook him off with a frustrated snort and climbed the stairs, his steps heavier and more purposeful than usual. Sam flinched when he heard Bobby's door slam. He sighed, brushing back his hair, closing his eyes and trying to just focus on breathing. He felt Ruby's hands cup his cheeks; bend him down so that their foreheads were resting together.

"Hey, it's okay."

"It's not, Ruby, he can't talk to you like that." He felt her eyelashes caress his cheeks, her lips pull up into a soft, reassuring smile.

"I'm used to it."

"That's terrible, you shouldn't have to be used to my brother being a dick to you." She stopped him with a kiss, hard and demanding against his lips and he breathed her in, opting to drop his bag to let his arms encircle her small waist.

"It's okay." She repeated, smiling gently and Sam just shook his head, leaned in, and kissed her once more.

"It's okay…"

* * *

"You can't walk around tonight. You have to stay in here, at all times. Understand?"

Castiel regarded Dean solemnly, eyes taking in the nervous tension in his jaw, the way his hands seemed unable to be still against his jeans. Worried, Castiel tried to stand. This seemed to catch Dean's attention and he eyed the Angel warily as he swayed to his feet. His knees no longer shook and there was a presence about him now. He stared level with Dean, blue eyes deep and seeing and Dean found that he had to look away, slightly ashamed of having such a pure, flavorful look shone his way.

"Are you that afraid of her?" Dean seemed to perk up at this, anger flashing across his jaw as he rolled his shoulders to stand a little more fully.

"I'm not afraid of her, Cas. I just don't trust her. We're in a police state man, I can't be too careful." Castiel understood, he did, but it seemed like Dean needed that assurance. The knowledge that Castiel wasn't going to do anything to make himself known. Suddenly, the Angel was nervous.

"Dean. I will not move about, but what if…" He trailed off and Dean caught onto the tremor of nerves in his voice and latched on like a leech.

"What?" He asked, suddenly alert, eyes darting about the room, looking for invisible faults and threats that did not exist.

"My nightmares." Castiel concluded reluctantly, and he could feel a slight blush mar his cheeks. He didn't know why he was embarrassed about this, probably because no one else seemed to have the burden of nightmares and it was a thing only reserved for children. He felt shamed to have to drag Dean down with him, all because he couldn't handle a few tarnished memories. Dean relaxed, the tension and growing panic seeping out of him like smoke and he studied Cas gently, eyes soft in a way they had only been for Sam when he was younger.

"I'll be here. Don't worry." And there it was again. That warmth that was becoming familiar.

* * *

The air was thick. Too thick.

And Dean hated it.

Ruby sat at the table with Sam, no one really talking, and Dean was stretched out across the couch, watching the police go off on how they might have found some leads (they hadn't). The tension was broken by a knock on the door. Both Dean and Sam looked at each other, then the clock. It was almost seven, no one was allowed out now. Dean felt the tell tale goosebumps crawl up his skin when a second knock sounded this time. He couldn't really move until he saw Ruby sigh and push up from her seat, her chair legs scraping against the floorboards with a bit too much force. That seemed to jolt Dean back.

"Ruby, wait–!" But the door was pulled open and a man clad in total black stared into the room. A helmet covered his face; most of it glass, and not a bit of skin showed on him. Dean froze. He saw Sam swallow heavily before standing up himself. The officer outside looked in slowly, before turning his head down to Ruby.

"Ma'am I am required to look about your house for the missing Angel 401." He held up a warrant. "May I come in?" Ruby looked slightly confused but she opened the door wider and stepped aside nonetheless. The officer strode in, his footfalls forlornly loud in the narrow hallway as he made his was into the living room. He looked about, helmet turning with his eyes, and he stilled some as his gaze fell to Dean.

"Does this home have a basement, Mr. Winchester?" His voice was muted and tired, but there was an arrogant undertone that made Dean's jaw clench.

"No." Dean wasn't surprised that the officer knew his name. His father was well known for breaking their mother out of the institution, of course all the police force had kept an eye on the Winchester's for years. The officer now opened every door, checked every cabinet, and when he began to make his way up the stairs Dean had to use every ounce of his will to stay planted in the living room. He just hoped Cas had heard the man come in.

Dean had closed the door though, like he always did, and since Ruby was here he had made certain that it looked as though it blended in with the wall. You could never be too careful, that room was designed to not be found, but Dean wasn't sure of what the point of that officer's helmet was and it made him on edge. He listened with baited breath as the officer stomped about upstairs, opened drawers and dug through the shelf behind the mirror in the bathroom. Sam was by Dean's side then, hand resting warningly on his shoulder.

"Dude, you have to calm down. You look like your going to explode or something."

"How the hell can you ask me to _calm down_, Sammy? How are you not worried?"

"Why would you be worried?" Ruby cut in and Dean groaned before turning his head away from his brother to face her. He tried his best to smile.

"It's none of your damn business, princess."

"Okay, enough! I'm sick of you treating me like some kind of second-class citizen! What the hell's your problem?"

"Ruby–"

"No, Sam, it's cool. Let her blow off some steam. She seems tense."

"Fuck you–"

They all stilled as the officer stepped down from the second floor, and he regarded them calmly before nodding.

"Thank you for your time. I am sorry if I interrupted your evening. If you see anything suspicious please report immediately and you will gather a recompense for your troubles. Good day." Ruby's eyes bore into Dean's and the older Winchester didn't break eye contact as the front door closed. He'd be dammed if he looked away.

"You're acting quite suspicious, Dean."

"Fuck off." He growled, pushing past her to stroll into the kitchen, swiping a beer from the fridge. He didn't wait around long enough to hear Sam lecture him; he was up the steps in a heartbeat. He looked about Bobby's room for a moment, didn't notice anything out of place before he went to the back, down the small alcove and felt for the crease in the wall that suggested a possible opening. He found it with his nails and pushed, the door swinging open to reveal an empty room. Dean would never admit that his heart stopped. Or that his mouth went dry and his head spun. Instead he walked in, eyes scanning the dark small room with a slight panic building in his chest.

"Cas?" He hissed, ears straining to pick up any sounds around him.

"Hello Dean." He nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice behind him and he spun around, almost knocking into Castiel as he did. The Angel was really frickin' close, and absently Dean noticed how pink his lips were. He then felt a shock of disgust and stepped back, sighing deeply and trying to calm his pounding heart.

"Dammit, don't do that!" Castiel tilted his head, almost like a bird, blue eyes blazing with amusement.

"My apologies." Dean nodded, looking up again to take in Castiel's form.

"You okay?" He questioned and Castiel seemed to ponder this for a moment.

"I believe so. The officer didn't come near the door." Dean felt like he could breath a bit more easy and he stood up straighter, taking the Angel in.

"You hungry?" He asked, and Castiel very nearly smiled. He shook his head and Dean seated himself below the window, waiting for Castiel to join him, which he soon did. That night they watched the stars and Castiel told him the names of constellations Anna had showed him when they were kids. And as Castiel talked Dean felt the tension and nerves of the day roll off of him and for the first time in a long time he felt relaxed. He felt at peace.

He stayed long after Castiel fell asleep, watched as his chest rose and fell in steady, rhythmic waves. Absentmindedly Dean swept a stray strand of dark hair off the Angel's forehead. He felt something then, a jolt to his heart, and he sat back, eyes narrowing and turning to look outside. It was dark, but Dean wasn't aware of the time. It was always dark here. He shot one last glance at Cas, pulled up the blankets tighter around the Angel's curled body, and stood silently from the room. He made his way across Bobby's floor and into the old man's bathroom, closing the door behind him and shrugging out of his jacket and shirt.

The tiled floor was cool beneath his feet, made his spine tingle, and warily, almost scared, he placed a hand over his heart. It was beating faster than usual; he could feel the increased throb of blood under his palm.

He was scared.

Scared of whatever the hell this meant, and he pulled his hand away from himself fiercely, as though his own body had betrayed him. And in a way it had. He closed his eyes, trying not to see depths of blue or black hair in his mind has he turned on the shower, letting the water go warm before he fumbled tiredly with his belt, letting his jeans and undergarments hit the tiles with a dull clank. Whatever he was feeling now could go away. It was a choice he was feeling this way, wasn't it? Wasn't that always what John had told him? It's a choice, because everything you do in life is a choice. Dean could change this; he could slow his heart again. Because he _chooses_ to.

The water hit his skin like needles, a sharp contrast from the days soft air drafting in throughout Bobby's house. Absently Dean wondered if Cas had showered yet, then remembered that he had. His second day here. Dean hadn't helped with that, left it to Ellen who saw it all with motherly eyes and a nurse's hand. Dean closed his eyes, leant his head against the chilled tiles of the showers wall. Cas had stood here as well, shed of Dean's borrowed clothes, the water running down his skin in perfect rivulets.

Dean furrowed his brow, tried desperately not to think of the expanse of pale skin, slim form but still hiding muscle, still honing a fearful strength. He had seen the depths of Castiel's eyes, had seen how they burned with determination for life. He shivered, the temperature of the air and the warmth of the shower having nothing to do with how goosebumps had broken out across his arms. A subtle heat pooled in the pit of his stomach, familiar enough that Dean gritted his teeth, bumping his head hard against the shower wall in retaliation.

"It's a choice…" He hissed, eyes screwing themselves shut but all he could see was Cas, his slight smile, his eyes, his full lips and soft hands. And he could see his scars, could see that the Angel was just as broken and damaged as he. And he didn't mean to slide down his hand, to let his fingers trail over the now warm skin of his abdomen and lower still to grip himself lightly in his hand. It was a natural instinct to move his hand, to feel the slide and tug of skin, the water not enough to act as proper lubrication so the friction was all there, was a bit tight but it still felt good, and Dean groaned softly, tried to stop thinking about Cas below him and more of the woman he had seen at the bar about three nights ago. She had been well endowed, she had smiled, had wanted. She was attractive, and he forced his mind to focus on her. On her thighs, on her waist, on how she would feel under him. But in his mind her soft curves shaped themselves into a body like his own, a voice much deeper and eyes much more perfect.

"Shit!" He hissed, eyes flying open as a newfound jolt of arousal coursed through him, brash in its earnest need and Dean felt like a teenager again, unable to stop his hand from picking up speed, increasing the rhythm until his toes curled slightly and he gasped, spilling himself over his hand and he watched, ashamed, as white mixed with water and was eaten by the drain. His skin was hot and he switched the waters temperature to something much colder, his breath stuttering and his hands shaking.

"Fuck." Dean groaned rolling back his head and letting the now cold water rain down on him. He lifted up his hand, pressed it to his chest, and felt his heart. It was racing.

"_Fuck_." He repeated, and switched the shower off.

* * *

Reviews are greatly appreciated! And so is constructive criticism! Thank you for reading!


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